Free The Graham Cracker Plot by Shelley Tougas

Chemist, and I wanted to change, too. We could all buy new clothes once we crossed into Canada.
    I’d never seen Ashley close up, except for when we hid under her table. I wasn’t paying attention to her face then. I had the bigger job of convincing her to be our escape driver.
    A long scar ran from ear to chin, like someone had drawn it with a red marker. I knew there were scars under the wig hair, too. Still, she was pretty, even with scars and fake hair.
    I heard a thud and saw Graham’s feet. He dragged the suitcase one thump at a time. He was re-soaked. Rainwater dripped down his face. With the suitcase leaning against his leg, he lifted his shirt and wiped his face, which only spread water around. The suitcase was black but covered with stickers. Peace sign stickers. Smiley face stickers. Sleeping Beauty stickers. Stickers that said, “Rock On” and “Well-behaved women rarely make history.”
    Graham grunted. “Wigs do not weigh one hundred pounds. What’s in here?”
    Ashley sighed. “Just hurry, please.”
    He dragged the suitcase to her feet. She unzipped it and tossed back the flap. I couldn’t believe it. There were wigs and hats and scarves and some clothes, but not many. Mostly the suitcase was packed with records . On top of the pile: The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper . The Chemist’s favorite.
    She twirled again, but it was a clumsy and drippy twirl. “This was my escape wardrobe. Now I need to improvise.”
    â€œWe’re cold, too. Can we wear something of yours?”
    She shook her head. “I’m tall and thin. I’m grown up. My things wouldn’t fit either of you.”
    *   *   *
    So, Judge Henry, what would you do if you were drenched and freezing and next to a laundry room? You’d poke through the dry old-people clothes and find something to wear. To borrow. You have to believe me: I would never, ever steal clothes from a grandmother, not even a fashionista grandma like mine.
    We borrowed . I found a floppy pink nightgown with little baby roses. It smelled like grandma powder. My feet warmed quickly in thick gray socks that went to my knees. Graham put on a John Deere T-shirt and jeans that still had a belt in the loops. Good thing, too, because even when he tightened the belt, those pants dangled on his hips. He rolled up the pant legs so they didn’t drag on the floor. We put our clothes in the dryer with little white sheets from a box called “Powder Fresh.”
    Ashley made us wait on the dusty couch while she sorted through their clothes. I don’t know why since she had her own. Graham and I stared at the wall and listened to the storm. Even Graham sat frozen, and that is a miracle.
    â€œI feel like Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” I said.
    Ashley called out, “A fashion statement unlike any other!” and stepped from the laundry room. She had a new wig—long and blond with pink highlights. And bangs. Always bangs. She thrust out her hip, showing off a man’s T-shirt tucked into a blue skirt with white flowers. She’d twisted and tied the elastic waist into a knot so it wouldn’t drop from her skinny hips. “All the way from Paris. Made from the finest silk. Designed by the world’s best designer. You like?”
    I asked, “If you have other clothes, why are you wearing their stinky stuff?”
    â€œI feel bad being the only comfortable person. It seems more fair, don’t you think?”
    â€œNow what?” Graham asked.
    Ashley said, “There’s a phone in the kitchen.”
    â€œNo!” I bolted from sitting to standing. “No phones! We’re not calling anybody. I know this isn’t going according to plan, but we’ll fix it. We’re going to wait for dry clothes and wait for the storm to be over. Then we’ll leave. Don’t even try to talk to me about it.”
    â€œI thought we could order pizza,”